


Just for One Day

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Growing Old Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Retirement, after the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 09:06:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about being a hero is, eventually, someone is going to want to give you a medal for it.<br/>Lavernius Tucker has no patience for this bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just for One Day

**Author's Note:**

> Title from David Bowie's "Heroes"

The thing about being a hero is, eventually, someone is going to want to give you a medal for it. It may be twenty five years after you’re already in the ground, but eventually, somebody is going to want to pin a shiny bit of medal to your chest which tells you that whatever-the-hell-it-is-you-did was appreciated and that whatever you sacrificed being a hero, it was worth it.

Which is why Tucker’s sitting in front of a big shiny wood desk and glaring at a woman with a gray bun in a room that smells like a bank and has medals on the walls. The nameplate on the desk says Matilda Swanson.  The medals probably belong to her. 

They want to give one to him.

 

“Okay,” Tucker says. He’s got gray starting to weave through his own dreads, the beginnings of crow’s feet and laugh lines etching into his face. There are more frown lines than he’d like to acknowledge. “Seriously? What the fuck.”

“In light of your service to the UNSC,” Matilda says with incredible patience for the third time, “in particular while serving in the diplomatic core, you are to be awarded the Star of—“

“How did you even find out about that?” Tucker demands. “That’s shit’s blacked out of my file. Even _I_ can’t read it. It wasn’t even for the UNSC proper, I don’t even know if I ever was _in_ the UNSC proper, I was just a boot-fuck sim grunt for some shadowy black-ops mad scientists. How the hell did you—“

“Have you ever heard of ONI, Sargent Tucker?” Matilda interrupts.

“Don’t call me ‘Sargent,’” Tucker snaps. “That’s just fuckin’ wrong.”

“That is your rank, Sarg—Mr. Tucker. At least, outside the Chorus military.”

“Because the universe has a bizarre sense of humor,” Tucker mutters. 

“I’ll assume you’ve heard of ONI,” Matilda continues. “Yes. I know everything. And if half of what’s in your file is true, you should’ve been awarded a medal long ago for the sheer number of successful negotiations and conflicts de-escalated with the Sanghei—“

“Look, I know what I did, okay?” Tucker says. “What I don’t understand is why you care.”

Matilda sighs, a soundless exhale of breath. 

“The UNSC wishes to honor your service with—“

“I don’t want your fucking medal,” Tucker snaps. “You know what I want?”

Matilda regards him coolly and folds her hands together in front of her. The skin of her hands is smooth, lined with age, but there are calluses hiding on her palms and fingers under that perfect manicure. 

“Do enlighten me.”

“I want a bed,” Tucker says. “I want a bed, and a roof and a front porch. I want to stand around all day and talk to my friends. _Forever_. I want it all on some boring-ass border world on Sangheili space with no tactical value or military presence so my fucking kid can come to visit without getting shot on sight. And I want it in writing. ”

“That can be arranged—“

“I wasn’t finished yet.”

Matilda meets his eyes. For a moment, neither of them blink, and the room holds its breath. 

She picks up a pen and makes a few notes on a sheet of paper on her desk. When the pen stills she looks up at him, waiting. 

“I want a trust set up for Caboose for when the rest of us die off,” Tucker continues. “I want a full pardon for codename Agent Washington.” 

“I can’t do that, Mr. Tucker—“

“The hell you can’t,” Tucker retorts. “You’ll do anything to make sure the stories in those files come out the way you want it. _Controlled_. Sangheili. Freelancer. Chorus. Charon. You gotta cover the UNSC’s ass. And the only way that happens, is I keep my mouth shut and don’t go to the press.”

Matilda’s pen stills..

“That would require leaving this building, first.” 

“Try it,” Tucker snarls, every tooth showing. His hand twitches so she can see the holster of his famous sword at his side. “You’ve read my service record. And I’ve got a paranoid, ex-special ops boyfriend who’s used to being betrayed on a daily basis waiting outside and if you keep me too long, he _will_ come find me. He’s not exactly trusting of types like you. He didn’t even want me to come.”

“And what exactly are ‘types like me’?” Matilda asks. 

“You read his file?” Tucker asks. She nods. “Even the blacked out parts?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Matilda says. “I have the access to and transcripts of everything from security tapes of Hargrove’s ship, to audio and visual files pulled from your helmet data your first few months on Chorus. I remember one particularly embarrassing conversation on a radio tower—”

“Is it legal for you to have those?” Tucker asks.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Then why are you telling me this?” Tucker demands.

“Because we’re negotiating,” Matilda says. “And I want you to know I have a very, very good hand.”

He glares at her, and for a moment she sees the young man he must have been. The young man she’s read about, taking on an entire company of separatist mercenaries with no defense but a crumbling temple, negotiating with Elites two feet taller than him with his son clutching at his knee. She can see him like this, in her mind’s eye, years younger, eyes just as bright and furious and staring down villains on Chorus.

Yes, this is a negotiation. Not a battle. Not that she expected him to treat it as such. From his file at least, she had gotten the distinct impression that Lavernius Tucker best knows what he wants when backed into a corner, when he has to fight for it. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to request, Mr. Tucker?” Matilda asks. 

Tucker blinks in surprise but recovers quickly, eager to take advantage of the ground given. The atmosphere in the room lightens noticeably. 

“I want to be the first to know if any more of those Freelancer fucks come back from the dead,” Tucker says. “Or if any other bullshit from Freelancer gets dug up. And if it never does, I want you to leave us the fuck alone.”

Matilda nods, checks a box on a notepad in front of her. 

“Us?” Matilda asks.

“Yeah, _us_ ,” Tucker says. “Don’t play coy with me, if you’ve got our helmet data you’ve probably got an earful .”

“Two ears,” Matilda says, sending him a small smile.

“Like what you heard?” Tucker leers.

“I was merely referring to the volume at which you two bicker,” Matilda says. “Don’t get any funny ideas, Mr. Tucker.”

“Oh, and I want diplomatic immunity,” Tucker adds. 

“I’m not giving you diplomatic immunity,” Matilda says. “No one in their right mind would give you diplomatic immunity.”

“Fuck. What about my own private sex—“

“I don’t even want to know where that sentence would have ended,” Matilda interrupts. “And no. You and your friends will be honorably discharged and provided with a retirement settlement so that you may live comfortably in obscurity for so long as you shall live, may it be a long time, Mr. Tucker. Is that agreeable?”

He hmphs and crosses his arms at her, but she recognizes his agreement. 

“The rest of your, hm, _requests_ ,” she says, lifting a paper on her desk to peer at the one underneath. “It will take time to make up the paperwork, make arrangements, find a suitable planet.”

“I want the discharge now,” Tucker says.

Matilda glances up at him over her glasses.

“I’ll prepare it. It may be some time.”

“I’ll wait.”

*

When Tucker finally steps outside the doors, the sun has begun to set, painting everything in pink and orange. Wash pushes off the side of the building where he had been leaning, goes to him.

“How did it go?”

“I’m out,” Tucker says, striding off towards the jeep. “It’s over.”

“Over?” Wash asks, jogging to catch up with him. “What do you mean over?”

“I’m done, man. My military career is caput,” Tucker says, spreading his arms out around him. “The end. Hasta la vista, hotass. Didn’t let the door hit me on the way out. You’re getting discharged too, by the way.”

“What?” Wash sputters. “Discharged?”

“Yup. Honorable discharge, dude. Turns out you even got a 401K lying around in the wastes of Freelancer. Who knew?”

“Honorable discharge?” Wash repeats, like the words are alien to him. “Are you sure—“

His feet stutter to a stop in the middle of the parking lot, dust stilling around his ankles. Tucker sees him stop out of the corner of his eyes, turns to look at him.  
Gray and blonde continue a fight for dominance in his hair. His face is forever lined with worry, but he’s mostly smiling nowadays.  He isn’t smiling now, deep grooves knit in his forehead. Tucker sighs, looking at him, unsure and backlit with the sunset sky. 

Tucker’s boots cross the distance between them until his hand reaches out, curls around Wash’s elbow. They both lean in. 

“Honorable discharge?” Wash repeats, voice thick with relief. “I never expected…”

“Yeah, well, it happened. Best not worry about it too much,” Tucker says, pivoting to sling an arm around his shoulders. “Told you nothing bad was gonna happen.”

Wash nods, jaw still set in deep thought, but he’s lighter now. They continue, side pressed to side, to the car, in step with each other. Wash pulls away to get in the driver’s seat; Tucker slides across the hood to get to the passenger’s side. 

“Cut that out,” Wash gripes. “You’re not a twenty-something hotshot anymore.”

“I’m always hot,” Tucker shoots back, opening the door and trying not to wince too obviously from the impact of his feet back on the ground. 

Wash snorts a laugh, puts the key in the ignition. The jeep roars to life. 

Wash stills again with his hand on the gearshift, head bent to his chest. The sunlight against his face makes his freckles look lighter, almost makes them disappear. 

Tucker looks at him and it hits him suddenly, almost violently, how lucky they are to both be here. How amazing it is that they’re going to have time. 

“What do we do now?” Wash asks. 

“We’re retired, Wash,” Tucker says, grinning at him. “Whatever we want.”

Wash returns the smile, a small one, staying in the corner of his mouth. He reaches over and squeezes Tucker’s hand briefly. He puts the car in drive.

“We could get a house,” Wash says. “Somewhere. Somewhere else. Away from all this.”

Tucker grins and puts his feet up on the dash. His knees only creak a little.

“I could get a cat again,” Wash says, voice full of wonder. 

Tucker covers a smile and looks out the window.

“Sounds like a plan, Wash,” he says.

*

The world the UNSC sends them to is a blip on nobody’s map and consists mostly of canyons, mostly of the box variety.

Tucker decides to find this funny. And if it isn’t yet, he thinks he probably has time.


End file.
